Chapter Chapter 4 · BURDENS

. BURDENS

“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,”

sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over,

the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the

task she never liked.

“I wish it was Christmas or New Year’s all the time. Wouldn’t it be

fun?” answered Jo, yawning dismally.

“We shouldn’t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does

seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties,

and drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It’s like other

people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I’m so

fond of luxury,” said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns

was the least shabby.

“Well, we can’t have it, so don’t let us grumble but shoulder our

bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I’m sure Aunt

March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I’ve

learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get

so light that I shan’t mind her.”

This idea tickled Jo’s fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg

didn’t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children,

seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself

pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair

in the most becoming way.

“Where’s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross

midgets, and no one cares whether I’m pretty or not?” she muttered,

shutting her drawer with a jerk. “I shall have to toil and moil all my

days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly

and sour, because I’m poor and can’t enjoy my life as other girls do.

It’s a shame!”

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn’t at all agreeable

at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to

croak.

Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with

the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were

not learned, and she couldn’t find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and

make a great racket getting ready.

Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at

once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn’t suit her.

“There never was such a cross family!” cried Jo, losing her temper when

she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon

her hat.

“You’re the crossest person in it!” returned Amy, washing out the sum

that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

“Beth, if you don’t keep these horrid cats down cellar I’ll have them

drowned,” exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten

which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of

reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she

couldn’t remember how much nine times twelve was.

“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early

mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,” cried Mrs. March,

crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two

hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were

an institution, and the girls called them ‘muffs’, for they had no

others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold

mornings.

Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she

might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other

lunch and were seldom home before two.

“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee.

We are a set of rascals this morning, but we’ll come home regular

angels. Now then, Meg!” And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims

were not setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was

always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.

Somehow it seemed as if they couldn’t have got through the day without

that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that

motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.

“If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would

serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never

seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and

bitter wind.

“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg from the depths of

the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the

world.

“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo, catching

her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away

altogether.

“Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a

wretch and I don’t choose to be called so.”

“You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can’t

sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make

my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and

high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”

“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt

better in spite of herself.

“Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be

dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can

always find something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more, but

come home jolly, there’s a dear.”

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted

for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm

turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,

hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate

friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something

toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin

too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their

parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will

which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.

Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her

small salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief

trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others

because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of

ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be

envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl

should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a

happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for the

children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent

glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about

theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds,

and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to

her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel

bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know

how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active

person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt

one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because

her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had

lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady’s will, but

the unworldly Marches only said...

“We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will

keep together and be happy in one another.”

The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet

Jo at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners

struck the old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a

companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place

since nothing better appeared and, to every one’s surprise, got on

remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional

tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it

longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to

come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her

heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,

which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo

remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads

and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer

pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever

he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring

down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of

all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked,

made the library a region of bliss to her.

The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo

hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair,

devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular

bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as

she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a

song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice

called, “Josy-phine! Josy-phine!” and she had to leave her paradise to

wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour

together.

Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had

no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found

her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and

ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless

spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series

of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training

she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed, and the thought

that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite

of the perpetual “Josy-phine!”

Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she

suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home

with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to

devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went

faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a

housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and

comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be

loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little

world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy

bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for

Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one

whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them

in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her

because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the

more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm

dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words

or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of

the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed

with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity

had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck

in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and

taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat

little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these

deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to

this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that

dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they

laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out

to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and

never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering

tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.”

Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but

a very human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’ as Jo said,

because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She

loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so

patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if

someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did,

however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that

wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little

lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and

day after day said hopefully to herself, “I know I’ll get my music some

time, if I’m good.”

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners

till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the

sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and

the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow

behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she

would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had

accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the

fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor

‘Petrea’s’, it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world

could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,

and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a

Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console

herself.

“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for

drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing

fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her

teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her

slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps

on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering

out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as

well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of

deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being

good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.

Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her

accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,

crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of

the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we

did so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were

considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her

small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,

however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin’s

clothes. Now Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy

suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,

unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was

good, well made, and little worn, but Amy’s artistic eyes were much

afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull

purple with yellow dots and no trimming.

“My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, “is that

Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria

Parks’s mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful, for sometimes she

is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school.

When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my

flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it.”

Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of

opposites Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her

thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously

exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls

were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger

sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, ‘playing

mother’ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of

discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.

“Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day I’m

really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together

that evening.

“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I’ll

tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “I was

reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for

Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like

fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she

began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by

opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.”

“I wish I could, and be done with it,” said I, trying not to be saucy.

“Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and

think them over while she just ‘lost’ herself for a moment. She never

finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a

top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the _Vicar of Wakefield_ out of my pocket,

and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I’d just got to

where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out

loud. Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me

to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy

and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though

she only said...

“‘I don’t understand what it’s all about. Go back and begin it,

child.’”

“Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.

Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,

‘I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am. Shan’t I stop now?’”

“She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave

me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, ‘Finish

the chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss’.”

“Did she own she liked it?” asked Meg.

“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back

after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar

that she didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of

the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she

chose! I don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich

people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,” added Jo.

“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I’ve got something to tell. It isn’t

funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came

home. At the Kings’ today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the

children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and

Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking

very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed

me, so I shouldn’t see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didn’t

ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was

rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace

the family.”

“I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than

anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head, as if her

experience of life had been a deep one. “Susie Perkins came to school

today with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it dreadfully, and

wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.

Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies,

my eye is upon you!’ coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We

were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he

ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,

but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the

ear—the ear! Just fancy how horrid!—and led her to the recitation

platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so

everyone could see.”

“Didn’t the girls laugh at the picture?” asked Jo, who relished the

scrape.

“Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know

she did. I didn’t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian

rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, never should

have got over such a agonizing mortification.” And Amy went on with her

work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance

of two long words in a breath.

“I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at

dinner, but I forgot,” said Beth, putting Jo’s topsy-turvy basket in

order as she talked. “When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.

Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn’t see me, for I kept behind

the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor

woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would

let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn’t any

dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day’s work. Mr.

Cutter was in a hurry and said ‘No’, rather crossly, so she was going

away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish

with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was so

glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him

over and over. He told her to ‘go along and cook it’, and she hurried

off, so happy! Wasn’t it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny,

hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence’s bed in heaven

would be ‘aisy’.”

When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one,

and after a moments thought, she said soberly, “As I sat cutting out

blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about

Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything

happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying

till an old man came in with an order for some clothes. He sat down

near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and

anxious.

“‘Have you sons in the army?’ I asked, for the note he brought was not

to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and

I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.’ he

answered quietly.”

“‘You have done a great deal for your country, sir,’ I said, feeling

respect now, instead of pity.”

“‘Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself, if I was any use.

As I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em free.’”

“He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give

his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man and thought it

too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls

to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say

good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my

blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and

thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me.”

“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like

to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,”

said Jo, after a minute’s silence.

Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this

little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and

drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and

parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here

the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew

diligently.) “These girls were anxious to be good and made many

excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were

constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,’ or ‘If we could only do

that,’ quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things

they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they

could use to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel

discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.’” (Here Jo

looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing

that the story was not done yet.)

“Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were

surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money

couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses, another

that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her

youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old

lady who couldn’t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it

was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and

the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good

behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings

already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken

away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never

disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.”

“Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories

against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.

“I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell us,”

said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion.

“I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more

careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,”

said Amy morally.

“We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget it. If we do so, you just

say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, ‘Tink ob yer marcies,

chillen!’ ‘Tink ob yer marcies!’” added Jo, who could not, for the life

of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though

she took it to heart as much as any of them.